


Today's Forecast: Obsession & Anarchy

by hotchoco195



Series: Bad Weather [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reichenbach, Insanity, Jealous Jim, Jim Being Creepy, M/M, Moments of dubious consent, Not so much Sheriarty per se, Off-Screen Major Character Death, Stockholm Syndrome, Swimming Pools, Terrorism, Virgin Sherlock, Yachting, canon violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim wants Sherlock, needs him, but there's all these other little people in the way. What happens if one day they're not there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning, not so much for the dub/non-con but more for the terrorism-related violence.

Sherlock was tuning his violin in his armchair, staring at nothing as he thought. There was a particularly tricky homicide Lestrade had asked him to consult on, and while he knew just from looking at the man that the woman’s husband had done it, he couldn’t quite figure out how. The door downstairs opened; good, he needed someone to go to Tesco for milk. He didn’t look up as the footsteps on the stairs died, going back to his puzzle.

“Get dressed, Sherly.”

The cold voice cut through him, making his head snap to the doorway. Jim’s eyes were bright, excited. His lips curved up wickedly at the edges.

“Why? Am I going somewhere?”

“Normally I’d love to stay and chat, but we have a timeline to stick to. Get dressed.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll take you as you are, sheet and all.”

“Even the Queen couldn’t make me put clothes on.”

“I’m not the Queen, though I really don’t care either way.”

The detective pouted, but he was intrigued. “What sort of timeline?”

“The kind that requires us to be elsewhere. Come along dear.”

“Suppose I say no.”

“I’ll persuade you.” He bared his teeth.

Sherlock thought. Jim probably had people downstairs to manhandle him if necessary, though the consulting criminal was capable enough of doing it himself. He had no idea where they were going, but it was probably more interesting than the homicide and his violin.

“I’ll dress.”

“Tick tock, Sherly.” Jim called as he went into his bedroom.

He grabbed a white shirt and a deep navy suit, throwing them on as quickly as possible. A part of him was tempted to draw it out and make Jim wait, but the other man was insisting on haste and there had to be a good reason for that. He hurried back into the living room to find Jim with his violin in its case.

“Ready?”

“Lead on.”

 

A car waited downstairs, a shining silver Jag that was just a little too ostentatious. A thickly set blond sat behind the wheel and he gave a nod as Jim closed the door behind them.

“Quickly, Sebastian.”

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t ruin the surprise, Sherly.”

They tore down the street, Sherlock raising his brows as they headed for the outskirts of the city with no concern for subtlety or safety. He thought they’d stop in the industrial areas but they kept going, eventually leaving the suburbs completely. They drove through the beginnings of countryside before pulling sharply into a field a little way off the road. A helicopter sat in the middle of the grass, two men with semi-automatics standing guard.

Sebastian headed straight for the driver’s seat, buckling on a helmet before doing up his safety harness. Sherlock followed Jim sort of blindly, too busy processing the new development to object to getting into the chopper. He strapped himself in, accepting the headset Moriarty handed him.

“Almost time, Sherly.”

“Time for what?”

“You’ll see. Everyone’s about to see.”

The guards got in the car and drove off as Sebastian started the rotors. Sherlock spared a glance for Jim sitting beside him, grinning eagerly as he looked outside. They couldn’t be going too far, perhaps to one of Moriarty’s compounds. They took off, soaring up above the field until Sebastian turned them to the east and Sherlock frowned. Why were they heading back for the city? If Jim wanted to keep him somewhere there they could have just driven. A helicopter wasn’t the most discreet method of transport.

They moved over the river, following it until they hovered almost in the centre of the city. Sherlock could see the tall towers, the Eye, the boats and barges in the Thames below them and the people on the streets. Jim turned and unexpectedly grabbed his hand, beaming at Sherlock.

“Are you ready?”

“It’s hard to say, since you still haven’t deigned to explain what’s going on.”

Jim pointed towards the Houses of Parliament. Sherlock frowned but looked. It seemed as normal as always for a second; then as he watched, all the windows on the river side blew out in a huge orange fireball. “Mycroft.”

There was another explosion slightly further back behind it and Jim pointed to that one.

“Lestrade.”

He pointed somewhere to the right.

“I know you can’t see it but Mrs Hudson, and just behind her, John.”

Sherlock’s brain raced. Even with the bombings, there was no guarantee any of his friends had been hurt. “Why are you doing this?”

Jim pointed all the way to the right as another orange cloud blossomed. “Molly.”

“Stop! Stop it!”

As if timed to meet his growing distress, explosions went off all around them. As far as Sherlock could see in any direction buildings were falling and burning, people screaming and running panicked through the streets. Jim watched casually, a satisfied smile on his face. Sherlock didn’t even notice they were still holding hands, staring in horror at the destruction as the whole city went up in flames.

"This doesn’t make sense. You’re destroying your own operation with everything else.”

Jim leaned closer, tugging Sherlock down by his hand until the other man’s ear was level with his mouth. “It’s all for you, Sherly. London’s burning for you.”

“What?”

“Our little game’s been fun and all, but it wasn’t enough for me Sherlock. I had to have you, and there was only way to do that.”

“By taking out the British capital and murdering countless thousands of people?”

“Millions, I’d guess.”

“You’re insane.” Sherlock recoiled.

“Obviously.”

“You won’t last a day. An act of terrorism this grand? The entire armed services will be looking for you. No country will give you asylum.”

“I’m not too worried about that. I have my own countries, you know.”

Sherlock stared as his city went up in smoke. In his own way he’d loved London, the old buildings, the gritty parts and the twisting streets. Now it was disappearing in front of his eyes, and possibly everyone he knew too. He staved off the ache in his heart at the idea of them lying dead in the rubble somewhere by a happy thought of punching Jim in the face, but it would do no good. He was a prisoner a hundred feet above the river; that needed to be addressed first.

“What will you do with me now?”

“Now the fun starts, Sherly.”

“If you think I’m going to co-operate after this-”

“Oh it’s much more entertaining if you don’t. I think that’s enough Sebastian.”

The sniper flew them towards the sea, the black and orange city blocks flashing by underneath them. Sherlock could see the fire department’s tanker planes dropping cascades of water, but London was beyond saving. The city was more devastated than the Blitz and the Great Fire combined, whole streets reduced to ground level. Sherlock felt sick, turning away. This destruction would be added to Jim’s account. There was a horrible feeling at the back of his brain that he should have shot the man the instant he saw him at the pool, John and his lives be damned.

They passed the coast and kept on into international waters. Sherlock could make out an old rig standing out of the waves and Sebastian lowered them over it, touching down on the flat concrete. Beside the structure was a sleek but large yacht, matte black and dangerous-looking.

“Come along, Sherly. We’re going on a cruise.”

*****

As conservative as it was on the outside, the inside would have put a sultan’s palace to shame. Everything was gold and leather, the wood mahogany and polished to perfection. There was crystal everywhere and thick plush carpet. Jim led him into an opulent stateroom and opened a bottle of champagne, pouring for both of them as Sebastian threw himself into a chair in the corner. Sherlock eyed the assassin cautiously but he didn’t seem interested in anything but his fingernails.

“Like it? I stole it from a disagreeable sheikh.”

“It reeks of too much money and too little taste.”

Jim laughed. “Shall we toast to my victory, Sherlock?”

“What victory? All I saw was chaos.”

“My very favourite state of being.” Jim smiled, pressing the champagne flute into his hand.

Sherlock drained it uncaringly, noting Moriarty’s smirk.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

Sherlock remained standing and Jim scowled.

“Dear, if you stay as stubborn as this we’ll never get anywhere.”

The detective just met his gaze steadily and Jim shrugged, flopping onto a couch.

“Suit yourself.”

“Where are we going?”

“Urgh, you’re quite the broken record today Sherly! Try to enjoy the journey instead of always fretting about the destination.”

“Forgive me for being curious, given I’m a captive. Must be my primitive survival instincts.”

Jim made a face. “We are going to one of my hideaways so we can get better acquainted. I mean, we’ve never really talked, Sherlock. We’re always too busy trying to kill each other.”

“I don’t want you dead.”

“No? Not even after today’s adventure?”

“Death’s too quick for you.”

Jim smiled and took a sip instead of replying.

“And clearly you don’t want me dead anymore either, since you didn’t leave me to die with everyone else.”

“Maybe I woke up in a good mood.”

“No. You staged that disgusting display for me, and you want me to live knowing you destroyed my entire world like some kind of vengeful god.”

Jim spread his arms. “Moriarty, thy wrath is terrible, thy mercy great.”

Sherlock turned to the window and didn’t comment.

 

They sailed on like that for maybe an hour, Jim quietly sipping his champagne and staring at Sherlock as the taller man avoided his gaze and Sebastian acted like neither of them was there, though Sherlock knew if he made any attempt to escape the man would be on his feet in an instant.

Finally Jim grabbed a remote from the side table. “Let’s see if any of the reporters survived, shall we?”

He flicked on the huge flat screen, running through a few channels before reaching a foreign news station. Horrific images of the ruins filled the screen, a voiceover talking rapidly in French as they showed shot after shot of people lying in the street or clambering over debris. Troops were roaming through the city trying to help people, ambulances taking survivors to a makeshift field hospital outside the city limits since all the major London hospitals were in flame. Sherlock didn’t want to watch but he couldn’t help it, eyes glued to the screen.

“What do you think Bastian? A good day’s work?”

“It’s certainly historic.” The sniper grumbled.

“I almost wish I’d waited until dark to do it. Imagine the sight of all that fire against the night sky.”

Sherlock couldn’t take it. He might not want Jim dead but that smug tone was driving him crazy. He refilled his champagne and threw the bottle into the TV, smashing the screen in a rain of glass. As expected Sebastian jumped to his feet with gun in hand, but Jim was faster. In a second he’d slammed Sherlock back against the bar, one hand clenched in his hair and the other wrapped around his arm. Sherlock stilled, wary of the gun aimed at him. He might not have much to live for but he wasn’t going to die without taking Jim down first.

“There’s my lad.” His eyes sparkled wildly.

He slammed his lips against Sherlock’s and despite himself the detective pushed back, struggling against the almost painful grip in his hair. Jim laughed at the shock on his face.

“We’ll work on that. Stand down, Bastian. He’s not going to do anything stupid.”

The sniper didn’t look convinced but he holstered his weapon, sitting casually again. Jim released Sherlock, reaching down to take his glass and sip before placing it on the bar.

 “Anybody else feel like dinner? I’m peckish.”

 

Sherlock decided to stay silent for the rest of the evening, no matter what Jim did to try and draw him into conversation. The mastermind didn’t seem too fazed by it though, rattling on to himself happily as they ate. He was almost amused by Sherlock’s resistance in fact, which only made the detective angrier. Jim was the most arrogant man he’d ever met, including himself. He felt a sudden sympathy for John, and then a pain at the thought he might be dead. Pushing it from his mind with the promise that if it was true he would get vengeance for his friend, Sherlock forced himself to eat and kept quiet.

After dinner Jim stood and offered his hand. “I’ll show you your room, Sherly.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Still, Sebastian and I have things we need to discuss and they’d only bore you. Come along like a good boy for Daddy.”

Sherlock stood, waiting for Jim to lead. When the criminal didn’t move he sighed and rolled his eyes, taking the offered hand. Jim took him down the stairs to a row of cabins, stopping at one near the bow of the yacht. It was as fine as the rest of the rooms, a big bed taking up most of the space. His violin sat in the middle of it. Moriarty had left most of the fixtures and furniture intact, apparently not afraid of Sherlock escaping. He glanced up and spotted the camera in the corner and sighed internally.

“I’ll be just across the hall, in case you get lonely.” Jim smiled.

“Your concern is touching.”

“I aim to please, Sherlock. Let me know if you want some company.”

With that he closed the door and the brunette examined the cabin quickly. There were about six different ways he could get out, but he had no way of knowing how many people were on board, or how to manoeuvre the boat even if he made it to the bridge. He would have to wait until they reached wherever they were going and try something there.

He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t rest much anyway, but with the images of people screaming and buildings falling he couldn’t even close his eyes for too long. His mind was plagued with doubts about his friends. Picking up his Strad Sherlock struck up something slow and mournful, eyes on the dark waves outside his porthole.

 

Jim leaned against Sherlock’s cabin door, fist clenched between his teeth. The detective had been playing for a solid four hours, one tune flowing into the next. Jim could always watch on the cameras but he preferred to stand there and imagine those delicate fingers pressing on the strings, his slender arm as he worked the bow. Jim stifled a groan at the thought of Sherlock playing for him, naked at the end of his bed. He was going to take the clever detective apart and put him back together again to Jim’s design, the bombings just the first part. He wanted Sherlock more than anything, needed him. They were so perfectly matched. He’d break down that resistance, all those silly morals John had been busy instilling in him, and then everything would be a never-ending riot of violence and havoc. He pressed himself closer to the wood as if he could melt through it, swaying his head to the song.

*****

Sherlock forced himself to go to bed around three, figuring he had to conserve his strength since he didn’t know what was going to happen next. At eight he was woken by a knock on the door.

“Breakfast, Master Holmes!” Jim cooed.

He hurriedly splashed his face in the tiny sink, throwing on his pants and shirt. There didn’t seem much point in putting on his jacket, so he rolled his sleeves up and opened the door. Jim smiled. He was also more casual today in slacks and a sweater. It was strange to see him without the tie. He held out his hand and Sherlock took it. They went up to the dining room, where fresh fruit and a hot breakfast buffet were spread over the long table.

“How did you sleep?” Jim sat down, unfolding his napkin over his lap.

“Fine,” Sherlock looked for a third setting and frowned, “Sebastian’s not joining us?”

“Oh, I think I can trust you well enough now we’re past the excitement of yesterday. Sebastian has other things to attend to, like preparing for our arrival.”

He knew better than to ask where they were going again, instead loading his plate with eggs and toast.

“How long will it take to get there?” he tried.

Jim smirked at the sneaky question. “About two weeks.”

Sherlock stored the information away, figuring if he could gauge their direction from the sun he could make a rough guess at where they’d end up.

“Unless I’m lying.”

Sherlock sighed internally.

“There’s plenty of ways to keep you entertained. The sheikh spared no expense – billiards, ten-pin bowling, even a trampoline I think. Not to mention the library, the sundeck, the spa and the pool.”

“I think I prefer my cabin, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t be dull, Sherly. You want to punish me by shutting yourself away but you’ll only make yourself manic with boredom. Relax a little.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I have my work to carry on with, but I’ll see you at meals and in the evening. If you’re especially good I might join you for a game or two in the day. And Sebastian is available to keep you company if you’re desperate but I wouldn’t advise it. He’s not much for conversation.”

“I have free run of the ship?”

“Within limits, but you’ll have noticed the cameras and the locks anyway. Try to have fun, Sherlock. I doubt you’ve ever taken a holiday.”

“I never saw a need.”

“I almost feel sorry for you,” his mouth twitched, “You’ve had an awfully sheltered life, my dear.”

 

Sherlock explored as much as possible that first day, establishing that what Jim said was true. The yacht was huge and well-equipped to keep any normal person busy and amused for months at a time, and even had a few things that took Sherlock’s interest. In all the time he walked he never saw another soul but there were cameras everywhere and certain doors that didn’t give when he tried the handle.

His days fell into a pattern. Jim would collect him for breakfast, still insisting on holding hands whenever they walked together. Sherlock stopped finding it uncomfortable as he learned to ignore it, happily submitting rather than have a power struggle every time he wanted to go anywhere. After breakfast he’d try to stay occupied until lunch, usually taking a few laps in the pool to burn off some of his excess energy. Moriarty was adamant they take three meals a day and since it took up some of his surplus time Sherlock consented. They chatted amiably and then Jim disappeared to his study and Sherlock went downstairs to torture his violin until dinner. He found himself going to bed much earlier than normal just to stave off the boredom of being awake. He also noted it was getting colder, though there was no indication of the shoreline from the deck.

Jim was very aware of his ennui, and almost apologetic whenever he saw the man. He occasionally suggested new things or came out and sat by the pool while Sherlock swam, keeping him company in the background. He was persistent in his flirting but Sherlock ignored it, putting distance between them whenever he got too close.

 

At the end of the week, Sherlock came to lunch to find Sebastian sitting between his seat and Jim’s. He raised a brow but sat, waiting for the criminal. He breezed in with a thick folder, placing it beside his plate.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, that’s for after lunch. Eat up, dear.”

Sherlock frowned at the change from their routine but ate, paying little attention to Jim’s usual nattering. When they finished Sherlock laid down his cutlery and Jim held up the file.

“This is a copy of today’s paper. It has a list of all the identified dead so far.”

Sherlock’s heart beat faster as he glanced at it, looking back up at Jim. “Have you read it?”

“I have.”

“And?”

Jim slid it over the table, folding his hands on the edge patiently. Sherlock opened it slowly, not sure he wanted to know one way or the other. It was alphabetical, pages and pages of names in tiny columns. Jim had almost thoughtfully highlighted several names, rather than make him search for them. Lestrade was there, as was Donovan but unfortunately not Anderson as far as he could see. Molly and Mrs Hudson were there and he took a shaky breath. He turned reluctantly to the end of the list and bit his lip at the small print that confirmed what he already knew.

“Mycroft’s not here.”

“Possible they haven’t found him yet, or he escaped.” Jim shrugged.

It wasn’t much and it certainly wasn’t the person Sherlock really wanted, but his brother was better than nothing. If Mycroft had made it he’d find Jim.

“Shall we find out?” Jim took his phone from his pocket and offered it to Sherlock.

He waited for a moment, not sure if it was some kind of test. But whether it was or not he wasn’t going to waste the chance. He dialled Mycroft’s number but an automated voice told him it wasn’t in service. That was perfectly reasonable given the upheaval in the wake of the bombings. Sherlock tried his assistant Anthea next. It was also disconnected.

He tried Mycroft’s office at Vauxhall, his townhouse and got no response from either. The Diogenes Club rang out. Jim was waiting patiently, tapping his nails on the table. There was one last number he could try. He keyed it in and pressed the phone to his ear, heart pounding.

“Hello?”

“Mummy?”

There was silence for a long moment. “Sherlock? I thought you were dead.”

“It’s a long story. Where’s Mycroft?”

She was quiet for too long. He sighed in frustration.

“Mother, where is Mycroft? Quickly!”

“He’s gone, darling.” She sobbed.

“What?”

“He died in the explosion at Whitehall.”

Sherlock felt like his whole world had stopped turning. As long as he’d been alive Mycroft had been there looking out for him, the consummate older brother, irritating and nagging but dependable. Sherlock had spent the last few days convincing himself that no matter what catastrophe struck, Mycroft was sturdy enough to weather it out. He had to have survived.

“Sherly?”

“I...I...”

“Where are you? I waited to hear word they’d found you and it didn’t come, and I was sure I’d lost you both-”

Jim took the phone from his hand and Sherlock was too stunned to react, eyes not seeing anything as he stared at the wall.

“Hello, is that Mrs Holmes? It’s Jim, a friend of Sherlock’s. I’m afraid he’s had a bit of a shock. He’ll have to talk to you later. Yes, I’ll make sure he calls. Goodbye.”

“Mycroft’s dead.” He said blankly.

“Ah,” Jim stopped, “Yes.”

“They’re all dead. Nobody’s looking for me.”

“No.”

His old life was really over. Sherlock stood and cleared his throat. “I think I’m going to get some air.”

“Of course.”

He made his way out of the cabin onto the upper deck, leaning against the rail heavily. He stared down at the blue water and fought to catch his breath. They were gone, burned up by the insane criminal and it was all for Sherlock. They’d died because of him, because he was too clever and not clever enough, because he’d attracted Jim’s attention and been unable to stop him in time. If he were a lesser man he might plunge over the side now rather than live with the guilt, but Sherlock held onto it. He would see Jim beg on his knees before he died.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim scowled as Sebastian returned with an untouched tray. “He won’t eat?”

“Boss, he won’t do anything. He only gets out of bed to piss.”

“It’s been four days. If he doesn’t eat something he’ll waste away.”

“Maybe he wants to.” Sebastian shrugged.

Jim grimaced and took the tray, stomping down the stairs. He knocked loudly and flung the door open. “Sherlock! Get up and eat your lunch.”

The detective turned doleful eyes on him for a moment before burrowing further under the covers. Jim huffed crossly, placing the tray on the bedside table and yanking the blankets back.

“I’m sorry, did I give you the impression this was optional?”

“Fuck off, Jim.”

“Sadly, you don’t get to tell me what to do. Now sit up and eat something.”

Sherlock ignored him and Jim slapped his leg.

“Hey!”

“Well, eat!”

“No.”

Jim hit him again and Sherlock surged up, anger written over his face in ugly lines. He grabbed Jim by the neck and squeezed.

“I should kill you. I should have done it the second I first saw you.”

“What a waste that would have been.”

“You took everyone from me.”

“So what, you’re going to lay here and starve yourself to death? Very noble, Sherlock. I’m sure they’d appreciate the sacrifice.”

His nostrils flared, hand tightening around Jim’s throat for a moment. Then his face fell and he let go, sinking back onto the pillows. “Go away, Jim.”

“Not until you eat. I’ll force feed you myself if I have to.”

Sherlock scowled and sat up, grabbing the plate. He started shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth, quickly clearing the whole lot. He threw down his spoon with a contemptuous look. “Happy now?”

“It’s a start.”

“Good, then piss off.”

“Fine, but I’ll be back at dinner and every meal until you get out of this bed and stop wallowing.”

“It’s called mourning, you utter bastard!”

“You knew they were dead. You knew it from the second the bombs went off, because you know I don’t leave anything to chance.”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to punch Jim for a moment, but he wrapped himself back in his sheets and turned his back instead. Jim sighed and took the tray.

“I’ll be back at dinner.”

 

Jim bullied him into eating at least half his meals each day. Sherlock consented with ill humour, folding himself back in the sheets as soon as possible. But gradually as he started to feel the melancholy less, he got more and more bored of lying there. He hated Jim more than ever, but he might as well go back to his routine rather than rattle around his own head all day.

Jim looked up in surprise as Sherlock walked into the dining room wrapped in his dressing gown and sat. He didn’t say anything though, waiting for the detective.

“Good morning.” He helped himself to sausages.

“Morning, Sherlock. Tea?”

“Thanks.”

“Plans for the day?”

“I might take a swim. I’ve been inside too long.”

“Mind if I join you?” Jim watched with a bemused smirk, pushing the plate of eggs towards him.

“Not at all.”

When Sherlock felt more than full he dabbed at his mouth with the napkin.

“I think I’ll take a nap while I digest.”

“Alright. Let me know when you’re ready.”

Sherlock nodded curtly and headed downstairs. His nap ended up lasting until after six as his body crashed. He woke a bit groggy but feeling more like himself and changed into swim trunks. He knocked on Jim’s door but got no reply, so he headed up to the stateroom. The genius was sitting with a brandy, head back and eyes closed. He didn’t open them when Sherlock entered but he smiled.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.”

“I’ll see you in there once I’ve changed.”

Sherlock walked to the door and paused. “Are you...alright?”

“Swell, Sherly.” He said, but his voice was sad and tired-sounding.

Sherlock shook it off and took the stairs down to the pool built into the back deck, throwing his towel over a lounger before diving in. He let the cool water wash over him, waking him up. He slid into a leisurely freestyle, long limbs cutting across the surface. He pulled himself up at the other end, wiping the water off his face. Jim came down the stairs in his own trunks, towel over his shoulder and the brandy bottle in his hand, two glasses clenched in his fingers. He held it up.

“Thought we could both use the drink.”

Sherlock didn’t object, paddling back as Jim set it all down on a small table and poured, bending to hand Sherlock his. It was good, warm in his throat, and while he usually didn’t drink the brunette let it sink into his bones gratefully. Jim tipped his entire glass down his throat and poured another, resting it on the edge of the pool as he got in. He dunked his head under, coming back up with his hair flat and slick. It made him look much younger than he was.

“I would have thought you didn’t like pools much.”

“I conquered my demons, remember?” he stared at the water, running his fingers over the surface idly.

“Your first triumph.”

“Not really. It didn’t make up for all the things that had happened before.”

 

He rolled onto his back, lazily pulling himself down the length of the pool. Sherlock took another sip and watched him, the smaller man’s muscles flexing as he moved through the water. There was something off about him tonight. The criminal returned slowly, resting his elbows on the edge of the pool.

“We must be almost there by now.” Sherlock guessed.

“Another day or so.”

“You’ll be thrilled then. You get to show off some more.”

“If I thought anything I did might impress you, it would.”

He sounded so down Sherlock raised his brows. “I find you very impressive at times.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do. You’re one of the only people I find unpredictable.”

“Only because I’m crazy,” Jim laughed hollowly, “Insanity doesn’t follow your usual deductions.”

“We could both be considered insane. Abnormal. Freaks.” Sherlock said, leaning on his arms beside Jim.

The criminal looked at him askance and Sherlock shrugged.

“We’re not like everybody else, Jim. Sometimes I think it would be easier if we were.”

“Neither of us would be here now.”

“No, I suppose not. Lots of things would be different.”

Jim turned suddenly, putting his feet down to stare at Sherlock. The detective took another sip of his brandy, the water lapping at his chest. Slowly, slow enough that he could have avoided them if he wanted, hands closed around his waist. Sherlock hesitated as Jim tilted his head up and pressed their lips together. It was only for a second and then Jim leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s collar bone, the detective frozen in his grasp, unsure what to do.

“Do you think if we were normal you could want me, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Maybe. I guess we’ll never know.” He replied gently.

Jim nodded as if he’d expected that answer and released Sherlock. He finished his brandy and heaved himself out of the pool, wrapping his towel around his waist as he headed for the stairs. Sherlock watched him go with a frown, not really sure what to think.

 

The next day it was like nothing had happened, Jim as sunny as ever. If the kiss had been like the first one, forced and vicious, Sherlock would have chalked it up to Moriarty’s obsessive need to be in charge and shrugged it off. But that almost shy encounter in the pool paired with his comment about being wanted had stuck with Sherlock. He knew all too well how it felt to be isolated by your own intelligence. He couldn’t help but feel a little surprised at the sudden tenderness and the way Jim hadn’t taken advantage yet if all he wanted was Sherlock’s surrender.

Jim stopped him when they’d finished breakfast. “We’ll be making port in an hour and a half.”

Sherlock nodded. He knew from their rough position they were somewhere off the coast of Scandinavia. There were plenty of places there that might offer Jim refuge. “And then?”

“I’ll take you to my house, settle you in.”

“How long am I staying?”

Jim shrugged. “As long as I feel like it.”

“Do I have to stay in the cabin?”

“No. You can watch from the deck if you like.”

He nodded, heading outside. He half thought Sebastian might come out to watch him in case he tried to signal anyone, but quickly saw there was no point in that. They were headed for a stretch of beach that looked completely uninhabited, rough forest growing almost to the tide line. He couldn’t see anything else but flat grey ocean and empty sky to the horizon. Eventually they stopped away from the shore and Jim appeared at his elbow, Sherlock’s violin in hand.

“This way.”

He followed the criminal to where Sebastian was waiting with a small motor boat, climbing down the ladder carefully until they were all seated. They drove away from the side of the yacht and it kept sailing, heading further south. Of course Jim wouldn’t want to keep something so conspicuous at his hideout.

“I take it you own this place?”

“All mine, and totally hidden. It’s my secret fortress.”

“Are they looking for you?”

“Who?” Jim frowned.

Sherlock shrugged. “Everyone.”

“They’re too busy managing the bedlam of mass burials and looters. I have no doubt they’re looking but anyone who might immediately suspect me is probably very dead right now.”

Sherlock felt a twinge for Mycroft. Sebastian guided them up to the sand, cutting the motor. Jim stood and offered his hand to help Sherlock out, heading for a break in the trees. There was a clearing a few steps back from the thick foliage that fronted the beach with another larger shelter over a Jeep and a thin path under the overhanging branches.

They drove for about ten minutes, finally pulling into a shaded grove that abutted a hillock that poked through the top of the trees. Cut into the rock was an extraordinary house. It looked more like something you’d find in Bavaria or a fairytale, all dark stone and high turrets with white brickwork and three storeys, but jutting out of the little mountain like an extension of it. Sebastian parked and jumped out, carrying their bags.

“Home sweet home.” Jim sighed.

 

“It’s like a Bond villain’s lair.” Sherlock smiled wryly.

Jim gave him an odd look and he shrugged.

“I’ve seen a few. John...he liked them.”

There was some kind of hi-tech electric fence but Sebastian turned it off with a remote and they stepped through. He fumbled in the front pocket of Jim’s case for the keys, entering an alarm code once he was inside. It was old, very Baroque Imperial with ornate mouldings and pre-Revolutionary French furniture, the back wall the smooth black rock of the mountainside.

“Your room is on the third floor with me. Sebastian will be on the second. Take a wander if you like.”

Sherlock broke off to explore, not really sure how this place was going to keep him busy any more than the yacht. If he couldn’t work cases no amount of books were going to stop him losing his mind. But it was a nice place, and his room had a huge ensuite with a claw foot tub and the wardrobe and drawers were full of warm clothing.

“Is it satisfactory?” Jim asked, leaning in the doorway.

“It’s fine.”

The genius smiled slyly. “Come with me.”

Sherlock followed him down a floor and to the end of the hall. Jim pointed to a closed door.

“This is my study. It’s the only room off limits to you. And this is yours.”

He pushed open the door opposite and Sherlock almost gasped. It was a large square room with a counter that wrapped around all four sides and matching cupboards overhead. There was a desk in the middle with a laptop and everywhere he looked was the best scientific equipment you could buy, the cabinets full of chemical vials and beakers.

“For your experiments. There’s Internet but I’m keeping a very strict control over what you can access. We can’t have you tipping anyone off to our location.”

Sherlock was blown away. Did Jim really trust him not to abuse the supplies in some elaborate escape, or was he confident Sherlock wouldn’t succeed? There were no cameras here like on the yacht. He gave Jim a confused look. “Why?”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes. You need ideas like other people need air, and I don’t want you to suffocate.”

*****

Their routine was similar to the ship, except here Sebastian did all the cooking and Jim spent a lot more time in his study. There was a satellite TV so Sherlock could see how things were going back home, but he never liked to watch for very long. Instead he kept himself distracted with new experiments and wondered what to do next.

He could escape. It would be easy enough to incapacitate the others and steal Sebastian’s keys, get to a city. But he had no idea where he was or what language they spoke, whether they wouldn’t just shoot him on sight or whether any English official he might find there would believe his story. He had no papers. He didn’t want to risk Jim following him and claiming he was a crazy cousin or something.

He could try to get a message to someone. Jim’s computer had full access to email; his phone still worked too. That seemed like the best plan to Sherlock but it required he bide his time and wait for the best opportunity. In the meantime he was civil to his new housemates and tried to gauge what Moriarty was thinking. What did the genius want from him now? He made no further advances but Sherlock didn’t doubt he still had some greater plan.

 

He hadn’t seen Jim for a day or two, and he’d noticed Sebastian was surlier than usual at mealtimes. Sherlock figured they’d had some disagreement and carried on with his latest study into the nerve impulses on the feet and whether there was any truth to reflexology. He was prodding his own toes with a thin needle when there was an almighty crash from the lounge room, followed by a screech. Curious, he set down the instrument and walked as quietly as possible to the top of the stairs.

The lounge room was in general disarray. The contents of the coffee and side tables had been swept onto the floor, the lamps shattered into a million porcelain pieces. One of the framed prints on the wall was cracked across its width. Jim had Sebastian pressed against the window, holding a knife to the bigger man’s throat as he raged. His hair was ruffled and he wore a white t-shirt over slacks, feet bare. His eyes were heavily ringed with the marks of too little sleep and too much caffeine.

“Explain to me why you can’t do one fucking simple thing I ask you to! It’s your fucking job, Moran! If you can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can!”

Wisely the sniper said nothing, standing completely still and staring at Jim calmly. He pressed the blade edge in just enough to make its presence felt.

“I’m surrounded by fucking incompetent idiots and you claim to be smarter, but I’m not seeing it Sebby!”

Sherlock sized up the situation. He didn’t care much if Jim killed Sebastian – one less person to stop him escaping. The sniper looked like he was used to the abuse anyway, and Sherlock was sure this was a common occurrence that would blow over without his help. He figured he could go back to his lab and leave them to it.

“You know what, I think I’ll take your eye. Not much good, a sniper with one eye, but you can continue to fuck up the rest of my affairs just fine.”

Sherlock paused with a sigh. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t rightfully let Jim maim anyone under his watch. “James?”

“What!” Moriarty snarled, knife tip a millimetre away from Sebastian’s face. The fact that the man hadn’t overpowered Jim told Sherlock he either didn’t believe his employer would do it, or was actually so damn scared of Jim he wouldn’t stop him.

“I’m bored. Would you accompany me?”

“What!”

Sherlock pointed to the white baby grand in the corner that had escaped his wrath, probably because even when he was furious Jim still loved it. “Would you accompany me?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“I’m a little busy, Sherlock!”

“What, with Moran? Seems a trifle mundane.”

“It’s business.”

“It’s boring and ordinary. Petty gangster theatrics.”

Jim rounded angrily, releasing Sebastian as he brandished the knife at Sherlock. For his part the detective made a scornful face and stayed where he was. “You watch your tongue, Sherlock. I might cut it out.”

“And deprive yourself of our banter? I don’t think so. Are you going to play or not, because if you’d rather mutilate your second-in-command I’ll go back upstairs.”

Jim grit his teeth and breathed heavily, the insane frenzy leaving him in the face of Sherlock’s mellow, disinterested voice. He smoothed his hair back with one hand. “Fine. Fetch your Strad.”

Sherlock nodded and headed back up the stairs, turning at a deep yell. Jim had thrust the knife through Sebastian’s shoulder, leaving the man hunched slightly as he waltzed towards the piano. “How do you feel about Bach?”

“Sounds good.”

When Sherlock came back down with the violin Sebastian was nowhere in sight and Jim had a huge smile as he worked the keys, a soft melody that contradicted his earlier temper flowing out. Sherlock stood near him and listened a moment before joining in, the two instruments melting together into one keening song.

*****

Sherlock was bored.  Usually between cases John would find something to distract him, but John was dead and all he had was a sniper who could play a decent hand of poker and a pompous psychopath who was always working. Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled over, curling himself tighter into the couch.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

He glared at Jim for startling him, the Irishman leaning over the back of the lounge. “There’s nothing to do on this godforsaken rock. I need work.”

Jim pursed his lips. “What about your experiments?”

“Ha!” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “What experiments? There’s nothing worth studying anymore.”

“Now I know that’s not true. You just think it is because you’re bored.”

“Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored!” Sherlock grumbled into the cushions.

“I could get you something for that.”

He fixed Jim with a scornful glower and the criminal shrugged.

“Thought I’d ask. Alright, come with me.”

“Where?”

“Just come. If you’re so bored on the couch, anywhere else would be better, yes?”

Sherlock pouted but stood, his dressing gown flapping like an outraged bird as he followed Jim upstairs. Jim went straight to his study and opened the door, and Sherlock paused in the hall.

“Are you coming?”

“I thought that was off limits.”

“Has that ever stopped you before? Besides, I’m inviting you in now.”

Sherlock crossed the threshold carefully, staring around. The walls here were covered in blackboards and pin boards, paper tacked to them or complex maps and equations drawn in white chalk. Moriarty had a desk with a massive computer, three screens all running different programs at once. Even the ceiling was hung with papers and objects in a strange mobile of string and schematics. Apart from his desk chair there was a long backless couch and a bookcase full of what looked like notebooks.

“Take a seat, Sherly,” Jim went to the desk and pulled up a blueprint, “I’m planning this poisoning at the American embassy in Jakarta, but I just can’t see a way to get my assassin close enough to the dining room.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sherlock frowned.

“You said you were bored.” Jim raised his brows.

“And you think that means I’ll help you murder a man?”

“Why not? He’s a politician, corrupt like all the others. You don’t know him. Why should you care if he dies? It never bothered you before.”

“I have some scruples.”

“Where have they got you, Sherlock?”

He sat pensively. He didn’t care about the victims of crime per se; he just didn’t want to be outsmarted by the criminals. He’d always been walking that fine line Donovan liked to talk about, the one where he’d eventually become such a sociopath other people’s lives seemed completely unimportant. He thought about how disappointed John and Lestrade would be if he did this, and he looked away.

On the other hand, working with Jim would be a real test of his talents. There was no limit to what they could achieve. In some ways it was scary, but it would be the most exciting work he’d ever had. Sherlock still wasn’t sure it was worth it. Wanting that was selfish, John would have said. Mycroft would have given him a disappointed look and reminded him he was human like everyone else. If he became a killer like Jim, what would be left of Sherlock? They were only separated now by how far they were willing to go to win.

But then he thought of the monotony of his lab, the solitude of the mansion, the crushing lack of anything else to do. He eyed Moriarty sitting patiently at the desk.

“Have you tried paying off one of the kitchen staff?”

Jim smiled and beckoned him closer.

 

Sometimes a discussion with Jim would give him an idea for an experiment, and Sherlock would disappear for a week to test his new hypothesis. Sometimes he’d get a tune stuck in his head and go off to compose for days on end. But always, always when he ran out of things to do Sherlock inevitably dragged himself back to Jim, feeling guilty the whole time. As for the criminal, he seemed positively gleeful to have the ex-detective’s help. More often than not they ended up arguing late into the night about Sherlock trying too hard and Jim being too obvious, but they always managed to agree on a plan that was beautiful in its execution. Sherlock slept even less than usual, either busy plotting or laying awake knowing somewhere out in the world people were dying and it was his fault all over again. A little voice reminded him those people would have died anyway, but it wasn’t very comforting.

They were sitting in Jim’s study quietly, Sherlock puzzling over a street map for a getaway while Jim spoke to one of his people. Suddenly Moriarty stood.

“What! You tell him we made our agreement, and if he can’t keep it his head will be adorning his own garden gate by sunset!”

He flung the phone across the room with a shriek. Sherlock looked up curiously. “What happened?”

“What happened? I’ll tell you what fucking happened!” his eyes flashed as he snatched the letter opener off his desk and jabbed it at Sherlock’s throat.

The detective rolled off the couch and to his feet, backing up quickly as Jim advanced on him.

“That fucking governor you fucking suggested wants to double his cut or he’ll tip off the mark! This operation is supposed to go down in three fucking hours, and if anything goes wrong now we won’t have another shot!”

“So we’ll kidnap his children and tell him if he doesn’t play his part they’ll be delivered to him in pieces. It’s an effective enough threat.”

“Effective! I didn’t get into this business to deal with second rate blackmailers!”

He swung the makeshift weapon angrily, the tip plunging into the wall by Sherlock’s head. It got stuck for a second and Sherlock used the advantage to wrench it from Jim’s hand, shoving the smaller man against the wall as he practically frothed at the mouth.

“Get the fuck off me!”

Sherlock pushed his forearm harder into Jim’s windpipe. “You attacked me unprovoked. I should kill you.”

“Do it then.” Jim hissed.

Sherlock met his gaze for the longest time, keeping up the pressure. He could kill Jim easily, take out Sebastian, call someone for help. But he waited until Jim caught his breath, his eyes losing their impassioned glaze, and stepped back.

“Shall we get on with it?”


	3. Chapter 3

The TV was showing memorial specials and ‘Three Months On’ recaps of London. He was staring blankly at some footage of the wreckage being cleared when Jim plopped onto the couch beside him with a glass of scotch in each hand.

“You English and your indomitable imperialistic spirit. In five years you won’t even be able to tell it happened.”

“I doubt anyone will ever forget it.” Sherlock said.

Jim handed him a glass and he took it without thinking. The alcohol was good, going down effortlessly. He gave Jim a scan out of the corner of his eye. The criminal looked like he’d already been drinking for awhile, watching the telly with a softened look.

“You don’t ever miss it?” Sherlock asked.

“London? It had its charms. But one city is like another after all.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You haven’t travelled much, have you?”

“For cases, but nowhere else. There was never a need.”

Jim laughed. “You and your idea of what’s necessary. Not everything good is needed. Sometimes you have to do things just for the experience of doing them.”

Sherlock gave him a sharp look, but there didn’t seem to be any innuendo implied and he settled back into the corner of the couch with his drink. Moriarty seemed satisfied to sit quietly for once, and Sherlock didn’t mind having him there. They were getting along well enough now they spent so much time working together. He knew Jim was insane and dangerous and he still hoped that one day he’d get to pay him back for what he’d done to Sherlock’s loved ones, but there was no point being constantly prickly to the only intelligent person he had to talk to.

They watched the end of the special and Sherlock stretched, placing his empty glass on the side table. “Where’s Moran?”

“I sent him to get supplies – but don’t go getting any ideas.”

“What would I do if I killed you anyway? There’s only one car and it’s about minus eighteen outside.”

“You could try and ambush him.”

 “I probably should.”

“But you don’t want to?” There was a tiny hint of something hopeful in Jim’s attempt at apathy, and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

He shook his head. “I’m not sure there’s much point trying to get home. I’m as guilty as you now and isn’t this what criminals do, hide?”

He stood, suddenly restless. Jim rolled his head to look up at Sherlock questioningly.

“I’m going to bed.”

The smaller man didn’t say anything, so Sherlock climbed the stairs and thought about taking a bath to help him sleep. He closed the door and started running the water, stripping off his shirt and trousers. He stood in his underwear examining himself in the mirror. He’d put on some weight from being fed all the time, but just enough to make him look healthy instead of gaunt. For a fleeting moment he thought John would have been proud of how well he was looking after himself, and then he shook it off.

 

Sherlock soaked until his fingers and toes were thoroughly wrinkled and the water had gone cold. The house was quiet, Jim probably passed out by now. He dried himself off and slipped between the covers. A soft thud made him sit up.

“Jim?”

He was leaning against the door in nothing but his black pyjama pants, staring at Sherlock with a sort of unhinged expression. The muscle hidden under his compact form was visible without his shirt, his arms clasped behind him.

“What are you doing?”

The criminal took a few stumbling steps forward and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress near Sherlock’s hip. He continued to stare. Sherlock was on the verge of telling him to piss off when he spoke.

“I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes...”

He hesitated. “Sebastian probably has something in the medical kit.”

“I don’t want sedatives.”

“Well what do you want me to do about it?”

Jim shrugged sadly, looking very childish as he stuck out his lip. Sherlock frowned, not sure how he was supposed to help. He thought about what John would do.

“Go back to bed, Jim. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Moriarty looked baffled and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I have to put pants on first. Go lie down.”

The criminal shuffled out, head down like a shell of his usual self. Sherlock turned the lamp on and grabbed something to cover his lower half, shucking the pants on as quickly as possible. He opened the door to Jim’s room and found him lying on his side, the sheet kicked down to a mess at the end of the bed. Sherlock pulled it up over Jim, sliding in next to him. He immediately rolled over and curled into Sherlock, who sort of awkwardly closed his arms around the other man, wondering the whole time what the hell he was doing.

They lay there in the dark, Moriarty pressing his ear against Sherlock’s heart and occasionally whimpering. Sherlock stroked his back and shushed him.

“I’m here, you’re okay.”

Eventually his breathing slowed, his grip on Sherlock’s arm looser. The brunette looked down at the top of Jim’s head but didn’t try to move, afraid of waking him. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

 

He woke before Jim, the other man sprawled over his half of the bed. Sherlock eased himself out from under the sheet, sneaking back to his own room to get dressed. He found Sebastian unpacking their groceries in the kitchen.

“Morning.”

“Holmes. Miss me?”

“I wasn’t sure I’d make it without you.” Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

He turned the kettle on, taking down his favourite mug. Jim walked in and stopped when he saw Sherlock.

“Morning boss. They didn’t have those blood oranges you wanted, but the guy said they’ll be getting more next Thursday.”

“Fine, fine.” He looked down quickly.

Sebastian gave him an odd look and carried a bag of toiletries to the supply cupboard in the laundry. Sherlock smiled at him.

“Morning.”

“Yes.”

He went about the business of making his tea, seemingly oblivious to the embarrassed look Jim was giving him.

“Sherlock, last night-”

“I slept like a log. How about you?”

“Not so much.”

“Shame.” He said sincerely, at the same time closing the subject. Jim gave him a relieved look and nodded.

“Ready to get started after breakfast?”

“Always.”

Sherlock woke up once or twice after that to find Jim curled into a ball on the edge of his bed, and he never commented in the morning. He could only imagine the nightmares the other man must have – his own were bad enough. He didn’t make a fuss, always pretending he hadn’t noticed Jim was there.

 

Sherlock was soaking in his tub again. It was the only place in the house he could escape the draught, steam rising up to fill the room. He leaned against the back, eyes closed. The sound of the bedroom door closing made him look up. Jim was running a hand over the end of his bed absentmindedly with that haggard expression that meant he was having a bad night.

“Can’t sleep?”

His voice had the thick lilt that betrayed he’d been drinking again. “Too cold.”

“You can stay in here. It’s warmer.” Sherlock lied.

“Thanks.” But Jim hovered by the bed, not getting in.

Sherlock sighed internally and resigned himself to get out of the bath. “I might go to bed too. It’s late.”

He dried off quickly and threw on his pyjamas, climbed under the sheet and waited. Eventually he felt Jim get in beside him. He closed his eyes to give Jim his excuse to cuddle closer without feeling self-conscious, but instead of the head on his chest Sherlock was expecting, a hand ran gently down his side.

“Jim?”

The criminal growled low and rolled on top of him, fingers clutching at Sherlock’s shoulders as he forced their lips together. The detective pushed his hands against Jim’s chest, shoving him back.

“No.”

“Sherly, we’re made for each other.” He murmured, running his nose down the side of Sherlock’s face.

“You’re drunk. Go back to your room, Jim.”

“I don’t want to.” He pouted, seizing Sherlock’s wrists and holding them above his head as he nipped at the other man’s throat.

Sherlock was taller, but he didn’t have Jim’s muscle or weight – reinforced tonight by drunken impulse. He struggled up against Moriarty and got nowhere, moving his head to avoid the touches along his jaw and cheek. “Jim, go!”

“But I don’t want to.” He simpered.

Sherlock stopped struggling. Jim had a look in his eye that promised he was capable of anything right now, and Sherlock couldn’t fight anymore. He was in a house no one knew existed in the middle of the goddamn tundra with a murderous lunatic and his pet killer. The only person he had left in the world was Mummy and she was a thousand miles away. It didn’t matter what Jim did to him. He lay still and let the drunk psychopath paw at his chest.

“There’s my good boy.” Jim cooed, coaxing Sherlock’s lips into responding when he kissed them.

He thrust his hips against Sherlock’s and the sleuth could feel the very hard proof of where Jim wanted this to go. He squashed down the faint panic in his throat and concentrated on Jim’s movements, wary of him getting too rough in his current state. Jim released his wrists and tangled a hand in Sherlock’s hair, moaning as he ground against him. His other hand slid into Sherlock’s pants, softly tugging the curls under his navel. Jim tentatively ran a finger down Sherlock’s length and sighed.

“Oh Sherly, I still love your brain best, but the rest’s of you’s so damn pretty too.”

He changed to a firmer grip, rolling his fingertips up and down Sherlock’s shaft. His body started to respond to the contact slightly, a light trace of desire swirling somewhere hidden in the back of his mind, but Sherlock wasn’t particularly interested. He lay there and let Jim take what he liked, as Jim did best. The mastermind curled forward, dropping kisses all over Sherlock’s chest and lathing his nipples with a warm, wet tongue.

 

He sat up suddenly, looking down at Sherlock’s crotch with disappointment. “Don’t you want to play with Daddy?”

“Not just now, Jim.”

“Meanie!” he exclaimed, looking so ridiculous Sherlock might have laughed under other circumstances.

He yanked Sherlock’s trousers down to his knees, sliding back until he knelt between Sherlock’s trapped thighs. Jim licked his fingers lasciviously, moaning around them as he met the brunette’s gaze. He leaned forward heavily with his other hand on Sherlock’s diaphragm, winding him. Jim’s fingers crept behind Sherlock’s balls to lightly press against his entrance, and despite his earlier decision to let it be the consultant tensed.

“Relax, Sherly. I’m not goin’ to hurt ya.”

He pushed the tip of one finger in, slow enough for Sherlock to make his muscles unclench but still fairly rough. The spit wasn’t very effective but it wasn’t terrible either. Sherlock only winced slightly as Jim probed deeper. Moriarty wriggled the whole digit in, thrusting and exploring. He brushed Sherlock’s prostate and the detective twitched, grabbing at the sheets.

“See? Told you we’d be good together.”

His motions were haphazard, half falling across that button of pleasure and the other just scraping at Sherlock’s walls uncomfortably, but the sensations melded together in his mind to something almost enjoyable. Jim pressed in another finger and Sherlock shuffled away from the added pain, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“God, Sherly. You’re so tight and hot. I want to bury myself in you and never come out again.”

He shoved another finger part of the way in and Sherlock could feel himself tearing under the strain. He threw one hand against Jim’s chest as the other gripped his elbow, stopping him from moving any further. “That’s enough.”

“We haven’t even started!”

“Stop!”

Jim pressed his fingers and Sherlock cried out, stiffening. Something about the sound seemed to wake him up. Jim stared down at his foe with wide, shocked eyes.

“Sherly?”

“Jim, stop, stop!”

He rocked back on his heels and Sherlock gasped. Slowly, much slower than he’d forced them in, Jim carefully removed his fingers. The detective groaned with relief and lay back against the pillows, panting. When he looked up at Jim again, the criminal seemed stricken. He stood, walking to the door like he barely saw it.

“Jim?”

 

The man ignored him and Sherlock let him go. He ran his hands over his face, trying to process everything. Belatedly he thought to pull his pants back up, noting the ache in his arse as he moved. Jim hadn’t done much damage but he’d still be sore for a day or so. The physical didn’t bother him so much. It was the other stuff that Sherlock couldn’t begin to understand. What happened now? What did this mean? Was Jim just trying for a drunken fumble or did he truly have those feelings for Sherlock that he’d hinted? He did stop when he realised he was hurting the man. Drunk, sadistic Jim would have done what he liked with no regard for his victim. If Jim liked him, desired him, _loved him_ – what was Sherlock going to do?

His thoughts were interrupted by the crack of a gunshot. Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran to the still open door, another two shots ringing out. He could hear Sebastian on the stairs, taking them two at a time, but he got to Jim’s room first. He yanked open the door and stuck his head in cautiously. The genius was blasting holes in his walls, savagely attacking the plaster. Sherlock moved his head as a bullet grazed the doorframe.

“Jim!”

At his name Moriarty’s head snapped up, but instead of the anger Sherlock expected there was only deep pain and anguish. The gun shook in his hand.

“Give me the gun.”

Sebastian was behind him in the doorway now, but neither man acknowledged him. Sherlock took a careful step forward and Jim pointed the weapon at him. “Stay back! Stay away from me, I-I-I-”

“It’s okay, Jim. I understand.”

“How could you possibly understand? You, Sherlock Holmes, who never needed anyone his whole life!”

“That’s not true. You know it’s not, or else you wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to take them all away from me.”

Jim raised the hand with the gun to his nose, sniffing into it as he teared up. “I did that. I hurt you over and over and I expect you to want me? To want to stay here with me?”

“Boss?”

Jim fired at the wall near Sebastian’s head and the man dodged it. Sherlock used the distraction to wrap his arms around Jim’s back, grabbing the gun.

“No, no, don’t touch me, you shouldn’t touch me!”

He wrestled it out of Jim’s grip and tossed it aside, and Sebastian snatched it up. Sherlock tightened his hold around Jim’s waist as his legs gave out, the smaller man sobbing violently in his arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it-”

“Ssh, ssh, it’s alright. Come on now.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

Sherlock gave Sebastian a look. The sniper was watching his boss with concern and more than a little shock. “I think we’re okay. I’ll stay with him.”

“No! No you can’t, you shouldn’t-”

“Jim, shut up. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Sherlock manhandled the squirming brainiac, lifting him in. He hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Jim alone, but he was reluctant to put himself in the man’s reach again. Jim seemed to sense his waver and snuffled.

“Go, go Sherly. There’s a key to your room in my bedside table, go lock yourself in, a-a-away from me.”

“No.”

“Why not, you stupid berk?” Jim snapped.

Sherlock shoved him across the mattress, getting in beside him. “Because I don’t need to. Because I know you hurt the things you love sometimes, but if Sebastian doesn’t hold it against you why should I?”

“Because you’re nothing like him.”

“Then maybe it’s because after all these years of being alone, I need someone to care about. And I’ve decided it’s you.”

Jim tried to say something but Sherlock pulled him against his chest.

“Now shut up and get some sleep before I embarrass myself more.”

*****

Sherlock woke up before Jim but stayed where he was. He didn’t want the criminal to wake up alone. He kept his breathing even and looked down at the messy dark hair under his chin, and wondered what exactly they meant to each other now. When Jim started to stir and rub his face against Sherlock’s chest, he smiled.

“Morning.”

Jim immediately stiffened but Sherlock carried on as if he hadn’t noticed.

“Need something for your hangover? I can call Sebastian to bring some aspirin.”

Jim extricated himself from Sherlock’s embrace and moved backwards. Sherlock simply rolled to close the gap between them.

“What are you doing?”

“Offering you aspirin.”

“Sherlock...”

“What?” he said innocently, “I thought you might have a headache.”

“If I do, I deserve it.” He grumbled under his breath.

“Should we have breakfast, or are you queasy too?”

“Stop that!” Jim sat bolt upright, “Stop being all considerate! You’re never considerate.”

“I can be.” Sherlock frowned.

“You shouldn’t even want to see me again after what I did, let alone be fussing over me and sleeping in my bed!”

“Do you remember what I said to you last night, about caring?”

“Not really.”

“Well I do – care – about you Jim. I know I shouldn’t but evidently I can’t share a house with someone for months and not start to see their good qualities. Last night you were drunk, and you were more demanding than usual, but you stopped when I told you to. You listened, Jim. I think you might love me as much as you love yourself.”

Jim shook his head. “I don’t love.”

“And neither do I, yet here we both are.”

Jim huffed. “Don’t think you can fool me into thinking I didn’t utterly fuck up and damage you. Now where’s that bloody aspirin?”

Sherlock left Jim to shower, insisting it would make him feel more human. He dressed and headed down to where Sebastian was making omelettes, the sniper eying him curiously as he sat at the table.

“Sherlock.”

“Sebastian.”

“Everything okay with the boss?”

“He may throw up the entirety of breakfast but he’ll live.”

Sebatsian nodded, dishing up. “And you, Holmes? You alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I only ask because I know what Jim’s like in his fits. You don’t need any kind of medical attention?”

Sherlock raised a brow at the speculative look. “I’m fine, really. Maybe a coffee to keep me awake after the excitement.”

“Huh. Well keep in mind if he has another bad night that you can always call me. He might be my boss but I don’t want to clean up the mess if he maims ya.”

Sherlock was surprised at the offer, but he simply poured himself a cup from the pot on the table and sipped it, not waiting for it to cool down.

 

Jim bounced down the stairs too energetically for a man who’d had barely any sleep and an excess of alcohol. “Sebastian! Where are the eggs?”

He took his seat opposite Sherlock as Moran served them both, putting his own plate at the end of the table.

“Bastian, I think I’m getting a little stir crazy. Solitude has its perks but I’m going more than a little mad out here. You might have noticed.” He slipped Sherlock a furtive look.

“I did.”

“Let’s go to the city and have some fun!”

“They won’t be looking for you?” Sherlock asked.

“Not here, at any rate, though I don’t suppose much record of me still exists in London for them to be looking at all.”

Sherlock nodded and sipped his coffee, planning out his day. With Sebastian and Jim gone, he could probably work on his music.

“You going to come, Sherly?”

He looked up, startled. “Sorry?”

“It will be a nice break from being cooped up here. Sebastian, give him a blade. I doubt we’ll get separated but just in case.”

Jim insisted he rug up and then Sebastian disappeared somewhere into the woods and came back with a huge black Hummer. Sherlock pursed his lips to hold back a sneer and climbed in beside the master mind as Jim rolled his head back lazily, eyes hidden behind silver shades.

“How’s the head?”

“Fine. I took a little something for it.”

“I noticed.”

“Don’t go all mother hen on me, it was prescription.”

Sherlock looked out as Sebastian started the engine. They took a separate path than the one from the beach, headed east.

“Tell me all about you, Sherly, I want to know every little thing.”

He raised a brow at Jim with a cheeky grin. “You first.”

He considered for a moment and offered his hand. “James Moriarty. Born in Dublin, we moved to Brighton when I was eight. My Da wanted me to be strapping and sporty and I wanted him to be less of an idiot.”

Sherlock snickered. The detective could feel this chat was much more than standard getting to know each other stuff. Jim was inviting him behind the curtain, to see the real man behind Moriarty. He seemed as excited to tell it as Sherlock was to hear it.

“My Ma was nice though. She always told me I shouldn’t feel bad when the other kids picked on me for being different. I think she would have been disappointed if she’d known I was doctoring their homework and running the school contraband ring.”

“I didn’t go to school.”

“No?” Jim tilted his head.

“I was too far ahead of the others my age. Mummy got me tutors and Mycroft spent a lot of time schooling me himself, and then when I was seventeen they sent me off to college.”

“I did maths at college. I was good enough I could have made a career of it but I preferred my consulting.”

“I studied lots of things. Chemistry, botany, anatomy, whatever took my fancy that week.”

“Why am I not surprised? I have a younger brother, Andrew. He was a station master in Birmingham, but through a tiny mix up that may have implied I was dead, he joined the army under my name and became a colonel.”

“Colonel James Moriarty?” Sherlock raised his brows.

“Funny, isn’t it? The British Government spent so long looking for me and they never even thought to question him. I guess two brothers having the same name would be ridiculous.”

“I imagine it put him in some danger though. From your less intelligent enemies.”

“Not as much as you’d think. I kept an eye on him.”

Sherlock gave him a look and Jim shrugged nonchalantly.

“For Ma’s sake.”

The road was lined with more trees, snow thick on the ground. He could make out the skyline now, tall buildings stretching up into the grey sky. “Where are we?”

“Russia. I would tell you where but it will be more fun to make you figure it out yourself.”

 

He let Jim do most of the talking. His Russian wasn’t as good as his German or French and after so long of speaking to no one but Sebastian and Jim, Sherlock was out of practice. He’d never been very sociable to begin with; it was enough to hear new voices as Jim bargained and pointed things out. The city was so much busier than the house too. Here there were cars and motorbikes, trucks, children running, people yelling. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.

“Having fun?”

“Immensely.”

“Let’s get lunch. Bastian darling, do you feel disposed to a new set of tea cups?”

“If you like, boss.”

“Sherlock?” he held up the bronze-coloured mugs.

“What’s wrong with the ones you have?” he frowned.

“Oh I’ve smashed half of them already. Speaking of which, let’s try to find some new lamps while we’re here.”

Sherlock trailed along behind Jim as he held things up and gushed and flitted from shop to shop like an excited child. Sebastian followed, eyes always working, always searching for threats while his limbs moved almost lazily. The detective ended up carrying everything since Jim was busy picking up everything in sight and Sebastian needed his hands free. The new tea set was joined by three lamps, two shirts for Jim, six shirts for Sherlock that he insisted on, a mirror to replace one Jim had shot in a rampage and a twee little harmonica that Jim insisted on playing the whole way back to the car.

“See Sherly? If we get you a fiddle we can make Bastian dance a good jig.”

The sniper rolled his eyes and packed everything in the back. Sherlock sat happily locking away all the things he’d seen to remember later. After so long in one place with one group of people, the rush of new data was overwhelming. He looked up and noticed Jim giving him a sly grin, and pursed his lips.

“What?”

“Figured it out yet?”

“The city? Honestly, I forgot about it.”

Jim laughed. “Does it not fall under your category of useful data?”

“Not really. Knowing where I am doesn’t change it.”

“But that old man on the corner by the place we had lunch, I bet you noticed he was cheating on his wife with his step-daughter?”

“Of course.”

Jim shook his head. “You really are a marvel, Sherly.”

 

Once they were at the house Sebastian started putting things away and Sherlock padded up to Jim’s study and threw himself along the couch. The criminal looked up from his inbox and chuckled. “Comfortable?”

“Extremely.”

“You’re a tad distracting though. I don’t see how I’ll get any work done.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” Sherlock said impishly, stretching his arms over his head.

Jim chewed his lip but focused on his emails. Sherlock was content to lie under the heater and close his eyes, thinking and piecing together any clues to their location, since it seemed to matter to Jim that he at least guess. A small sigh made him look at Jim.

“That’s all for today. Want to throw on a documentary or the news or something?”

He stood over Sherlock, waiting for a pronouncement. The brunette opened his arms. “I’m fine to stay here.”

“Ah.” Jim said, looking away. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Are you joining me?”

“No.”

“Come here, idiot.” Sherlock tugged him off balance, catching Jim awkwardly and forcing him to wriggle until they were reclining next to each other.

“Are you sure?” Jim asked.

“Do I ever do anything I’m not sure of?”

“Probably not.”

They lay there, the deductive violinist and the mad Irishman finally relaxing against him after an annoyed look from Sherlock, the only sound Jim’s computer.

“It’s St Petersburg, by the way.”

“I know.”

“Liar.”

“Shut up and stop squirming.”


End file.
